Chapter eleven – You Are ... Perfect

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Once we've arrived back home, we enter the back door into the kitchen. I can't stop thinking about Michael and Clover; it's not a relationship I'm worried about ... it's losing my only proper friend. It's a little scary.

"So," I start, "What now?"

He hasn't spoken since I asked him the question of whether he liked Clover or not. He must be feeling awkward, to say the very least.

"Don't know," he answers quickly.

I furrow my eyebrows and sigh. Did my question really get to him that much? I know he probably feels embarrassed that I asked, but he doesn't have to try to avoid speaking to me because of it.

"W-Well, I was thinking we should just stay in the rest of the day," I state.

"Sure."

"What's wrong, Michael?" I suddenly find myself asking, "Tell me, please?"

"Wrong? Nothing," he assures me timidly, "Why would you—?"

"You've been funny since I asked you about Clover."

"Oh," he murmurs.

"Just "Oh"?" I question.

"Y-Yeah. I'm gonna go have some ... alone time now, if that's okay."

Wow ... he is trying to avoid me. My question must really have gotten to him badly, if he's trying to get away from me, now.

"Michael—"

"I won't be long," he assures me, giving a fake smile, which quickly returns to a straight face, "Just a half hour; something like that."

"Right," I mutter.

He then nods, and walks slowly out of the room. Unlike any other time he walks away, I don't follow him; instead sitting down at the table and burying my head into my hands in a slightly-confused daze.

Today's visit to dad ... and Clover ... was nice. It gave me a chance to speak to dad for the first time in ... I don't even know how long. The visit today was the most alert and active I've seen him since mom died. It really made me happy seeing him smile, even if it was only a little.

And Michael ... it was nice seeing him smile genuinely today, after he tried to kill himself. I really believe that he's slowly starting to cheer up after the initial stunned, disoriented feeling of losing his family.

Of course, he won't ever get over such an awful event, but I think he's gradually learning to live with it. It's funny what grief can do to a person ... it really is.

*  *  *

About half an hour later, I'm still sat in my chair at the kitchen table. I'm wondering what Michael's spending his free time doing, to be honest. I know he's doing it just to avoid me.

Should I go check on him?

No ... he'll just find another way to avoid me.

Should I wait for him to come to me instead?

That sounds the better option.

So, I continue sitting ... and waiting ...

*  *  *

My eyes open, and I find myself in my room. How has this happened? I don't understand. Last time I opened my eyes, I was in the kitchen. My eyes move around the room, until I see Michael, and I jump in surprise.

"Oh! You scared me," I breathe.

He's sitting on a chair by the bedroom door, one leg crossed over the other. His gaze is fixated on me, but only casually, if you can say that.

"Finally, you're awake," he breathes.

"Uh ... yeah," I answer, "How long was I asleep for?"

"About three hours. Looks like the visit to your father's tired you out." He smiles a little, obviously finding it somewhat amusing that I fell asleep, "Anyway, um ... I came back from my alone time about two hours ago, and found you sleeping at the table. I carried you up here, trying really hard not to disturb you."

"Oh," I murmur, before making my voice more audible, "Well, thanks Michael. I didn't even realise I was tired ... obviously was."

"Yeah ... so now it's, like, 5 o'clock at night."

I sit myself up fully on my bed, before checking the time on my bedside clock. He's right; it's past five o'clock now. It's 5:17pm.

"Gosh, so it is!" I gasp, getting out of bed fully and dashing towards my bedroom door, "I better be starting dinner."

My hand touches lightly on the doorknob, but before I can turn it, Michael's large hand rests atop mine, sending shivers down my spine. My eyes avert up to his, and I knit my eyebrows together in confusion.

"You don't have to rush," he explains, "And you certainly don't have to start with dinner. I'm already on it."

"No, Michael, I can't—"

"Ah-bah-bah-bah! Nope! I already started anyway, so there's nothing you can do about it. I found some stuff in your cupboards and threw it all together," he tells me.

"So ... what are we having?" I smile.

"Pasta salad. I hope you don't mind that."

I shake my head frantically, "No, no, that's fine! Perfect!" Then I remember earlier, and my enthusiasm sort of subsides, "But ... I want to know something."

"Sure. Let's go downstairs though," he replies, removing his hand from mine and letting me open the bedroom door at last. Once we've gotten downstairs, we sit at the table, and he nods, "Go on."

"Well ... I want to know why you've been so ... different today. Like, first you wake me up, instead of the other way around, then you make me breakfast ..." I pause to think of what else he's done which is out of the ordinary, "Oh, you said you didn't want to be around new people, yet you spent a lot of time with Clover when we went over to see dad, and ... then you avoided me for ages, and—"

"Avoided?" he repeats, cutting my speech off.

"Yeah," I clarify, "Ever since I asked that question about Clover ... you've been avoiding me."

He furrows his eyebrows, leaning his head against his hands, and his elbows against the table. A single, delicate curl drapes over his forehead, which he obviously doesn't seem to acknowledge in any way, despite it being directly in his line of vision.

"Citria ... why do you think I'm avoiding you?" he asks somewhat sadly.

"Well, I-I just ... I asked you that question about ... your feelings on Clover, and then after that, you kind of seemed to ... not want to spend time with me."

He exhales, leaning back in his chair, resting his arms behind his head, as if sunbathing, "Cit ..." he starts, "I haven't been avoiding you at all, okay? Don't ever think that."

"But you—"

"I know I had alone time ... that was because I was overwhelmed from having been around new people. I needed a little isolation because I'm not used to being around more than one person at a time, now ... "

Feeling a little stupid, I shift my gaze towards the table, and nod slowly. Why did I make assumptions? I should've known he wasn't avoiding me personally; that he was just gathering his thoughts or something.

"I'm sorry," my little voice lets out involuntarily.

"Huh?" he demands softly, "Whatcha say?"

"I said ... I'm sorry," I repeat, "For making assumptions."

There it is again. That casual, bad boy smile he does when he's amused or happy. Why does it make me feel tingly and strange, whenever he does that smile? Is it because I'm happy that he's actually enjoying the moment we're living, instead of crying his eyes out over his family?

Yes, it must be. There's no other explanation for the tingly feeling.

"You don't have to apologise, Citria," he chuckles, "Honestly."

"Sor—okay," I correct myself.

"Good save there," he chuckles.

"Uh ... heh, thanks," I reply, embarrassed.

He averts his eyes over to the kitchen side, so I do too, seeing dinner sat there waiting for us. He then looks back at me, and begins to stand up.

"I better be getting dinner sorted for us both now," he states.

"Sure, sure," I answer, clearing my throat, "Uhm ... thanks for making dinner. You really didn't have to ... like, at all."

"It's really no worry," he answers, bringing the bowl of salad over to the table, "You've done it every single meal. I think I owe just one meal to you ... right?"

I swallow, feeling my throat drying up drastically at his kindness, "Uh ... I guess. But still, you should've woken me up so I could do it."

"Citria, can I ask a favour of you?"

"Of course, anything!" I answer enthusiastically. "It's what I'm here for, Michael."

"Well ... I just want you to listen to me. Don't say a single word ... just listen."

"Sure!" I give a closed-mouth smile, "I'll listen to you any time you need it."

"Thank you. Now ... listen. Stop telling me that you haven't done enough for me, or that I shouldn't be doing stuff for you ... because in actual fact, I owe you everything for what you've done for me. Citria, don't you even realise?" He starts separating the salad into two bowls; one for each of us, "Only a couple days ago, I was threatening to commit suicide ... don't you remember?"

"Yes." My reply is croaky and weak, "I remember."

"Exactly. You saved me from dying ... see? If you hadn't have been there ... I would've made sure that bullet hit me directly in the head. But because you were trying to stop me ... I set it off by accident, and it didn't get me. I know, I know ... it's based on luck that it didn't hit me, but without you being there, there'd have been no luck, because it would've hit me, and I'd have made sure of that ... "

Hearing his little speech is making me feel ... strange. Like, I take every single point he's made into account, but ... I still feel like I'm not good enough. Like, I don't know ... like I need to do more for him.

"I-I—The only thing is, Michael ... I don't feel the way you do. You may say that I've done everything for you but ... I don't feel like I have!"

He exhales through his nose in amusement, handing me my bowl of salad and starting to eat his own. Once he's swallowed one forkful, he speaks again.

"That's exactly what I mean, Citria. You can never accept that you're an amazing person. It's irony, because that's your only flaw."

"My only flaw?" I repeat, "Michael, please ... I have a lot of flaws. I'm far from perfect," I smile.

His light-hearted mood suddenly becomes more serious, and he lowers his fork and averts his eyes down in the direction of his bowl.

"That's not true, Citria ... "

"You don't have to lie—"

"Citria, I'm not!" His seriousness starts to take on a more jokey tone now, but I can tell he's going to mean every single word he's about to say.

"You are ... perfect, okay? ... You are ... perfect."

These words cause me to freeze for a moment, unsure on how to reply to Michael. How is it physically possible to reply to those words? He's just called me perfect ... but that's the thing; I can't see that perfection.

Instead of speaking, I swallow. I do attempt to speak, but when I open my mouth to talk, no words come out. Rather, a small squeak does, and I knit my eyebrows together and rush to get a forkful of salad in my mouth to avoid any more awkwardness.

"I'm sorry," he apologises.

"Why are you sorry?" I ask, after finishing my bite of food.

"For saying that. I've just made it awkward ... haven't I?"

"No, no ... it's totally fine. Honestly, don't worry about it."

"I guess that's my flaw, isn't it?" he questions, his voice more quiet and timid-sounding now, "My flaw is never having the right thing to say."

"No, Michael ... " My mother instincts come out again, "Your only flaw is that you're so afraid of the world. Since your family died, it's almost like you've been in hiding ... too afraid to face the outside world. I had to force you to stay with me, and I had to force you to come visit Clover and my father. You won't even go grocery shopping with me! You need to learn that not everyone hurts people. You can trust a lot of people if you give them a chance, Michael ... "

After a few moments of silence, he exhales loudly through his mouth, fiddling with his fingers under the table.

"I know I'm scared of the outside world. That's because you never know what's out there. The murderer of my family is walking free right now, and here I am ... not even knowing what to do with my life."

"That's why I'm here to help you." I rest my hand lightly upon his forearm, to comfort him, "And that's what I'll help you build confidence on."

"And that's exactly what I mean," he says, "You're willing to help me, no matter what I've done for you. In the past, I've done so many bad things to you ... and here you are, still supporting me."

"Because you need that support ... "

I dig my fork into the salad bowl again, before raising it up to take the bite. As I chew, my eyes avert to Michael again, who is now looking down at his bowl, his head leant on his hand, his elbow leant on the table. He isn't even eating his food; more, playing with it.

"Michael, are you not hungry?"

"I am ... kinda. I was just sorta in my own little world ... sorry ... "

"Well ... it'll keep your strength up, so maybe you should have a bit more," I suggest.

"You sound like my mother," he gives a faint smile, "She was always the one saying that at dinner when I was little. Even when I became an adult, she would say that, sometimes. Mother always tried to get the best out of me."

Just as I'm about to avert my eyes back down to my salad bowl, I see a single tear run down Michael's cheek ... but he's remaining silent ... and he's smiling ever-so-slightly.

"Michael, don't cry," I frown, lowering my fork and wiping the tear away.

He shakes his head and lifts his fork once again, "Nah, nah ... I'm not crying. Just shedding a tear 'cause I'm reminiscing. Don't worry."

"You're sure?" I question.

He gives me a closed-mouth smile, and nods reassuringly, "Honest, mother," he jokes.

I chuckle and roll my eyes, "Alright Michael. But at least try eating a little more?"

He exhales through his nose once more, and takes a bite of his food. Once he's swallowed it, he replies to me, "Anything for you, Citria."

*  *  *

It's now 9:30pm, and because of the little nap I had earlier, I'm wide awake. Michael and I are sitting on the sofa in the living room, watching TV to pass the time.

I know Michael's tired after the long day we've had. We have done a lot today, to be fair; visiting father and Clover must have taken the most for him to do. Then again ... he seemed to enjoy Clover's company, so maybe he didn't find it too bad.

I avert my eyes to Michael, seeing his eyes slowly closing. But then, a couple seconds later, they snap back open, indicating that he's trying to stay awake. It's sort of cute, really.

With a couple more of these staying-awake cycles, I give in and tap his shoulder to catch his attention.

"Hey ... Michael?" I whisper.

He shifts his gaze to me, and I see just how glazed-over his eyes are from tiredness, "Huh?" he answers.

"You're tired; go to bed."

"Tired?" he repeats, before yawning – which proves my statement correct, "I'm not tired Citria."

I can't help but laugh at that clear lie, "Wow ... I thought you would at least make that lie convincing."

"I'm being honest," he groans, finding humour in it, too, "Honestly."

I lift him up off the sofa, and drag him upstairs to his room, despite his many complaints that he wants to stay downstairs. Gosh, he's like a little kid.

"Now ... goodnight, Michael," I smile.

He huffs jokily, "Night Citria."

I slip out of the room, before heading back downstairs to the living room, and finishing off the programme that's on TV.

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Sorry for the abrupt ending. Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed this chapter!